


Eden

by jvo_taiski



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Bittersweet, Catching Fire, Loss, M/M, brief plans for a revolution, does this count as enemies to lovers?, katniss dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: But she’s dead now, and for some reason Gale is seeing heaven in her lover’s eyes.Gale's slow descent into new love, and when that's ripped away from him too.
Relationships: Gale Hawthorne/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 80





	Eden

Somewhere, there is a good place. A field. It looks a little like the Meadow, but where the grass grows a little greener and the flowers glow a little brighter and it seems to extend forever, with only the lazy yellow sun at the end.

Sometimes, in the dark, lonely times, Gale imagines that’s where his father is, waiting for him. Sometimes he imagines he’s there with him, or with his whole family or Katniss or Thom. And sometimes, he thinks he’s found that place on Earth.

It’s only in the small moments, like when his mother reaches up and ruffles his hair like she did when he was two, or when Rory grins at him with the little crinkle in the corner of his eyes—just like his dad. Occasionally, he finds it when Thom makes a stupid, crude joke and it lights up the mines just a little. He used to find it when Katniss would get lost in the woods and give him one of her rare, breath-taking smiles.

But she’s dead now, and for some reason Gale is seeing heaven in her lover’s eyes. It’s messed up on a lot of levels but Peeta is Peeta and maybe Gale and Katniss are more similar then they thought they were or maybe it’s just the way Peeta is, but Gale thinks he might be falling a little in love.

* * *

It’s ugly. Everything from when Effie fucking Trinket fished around in that glass bowl of hers and called out _Primrose Everdeen—_ everything after that was ugly, from the way Katniss jumped up and shouted _no,_ to the way she held his hand when he saw her last and the burden of keeping her family alive. _For her._

It didn’t get any better when she made her first appearance. He should have been excited when he saw her flaming in the dark, a spark of hope, maybe she’d get sponsors, maybe she _wasn’t going to die, just like every other tribute from 12—_

But all Gale could see was the spark leaving her eyes and her hand entwined in Peeta Mellark’s and it was all ugly.

* * *

“I’ve got bread,” he says, unhelpfully. Gale’s not blind. He can see that. And he’s got a pretty good idea about why he’s got bread too.

“Fuck off.”

“Not until you take the bread.”

“I don’t want your charity,” he scowls, even though he’s literally being offered two loaves of fresh-baked bread. His stomach growls.

“She wanted me to help you. What am I supposed to do, give up?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not charity, it’s for her. And to be perfectly honest, I never thought it would come down to this but I’m here and she’s not, so here we are. Now take the bread.”

Gale considers. He’s angry, sure, but by the looks of things, so is Peeta—and he’s being very nonchalant about it. In a way, he’s grateful.

“You know we’re not related?”

“Oh I’m sorry, does it look like I give a shit? My bad.”

The boy’s mouthier than he was on screen, and it surprises Gale a little. Although it shouldn’t. Not really. But he’s still mad at Peeta for everything, so he tries closing the door on his face.

He huffs in frustration. “We had an agreement! The least I can do is honour it.”

“So, it’s charity. Fuck your agreement.”

“Look, do you need a longer explanation or are you going to take the bread?”

“Fuck your explanation.”

“Fine,” he scowls. “Suit yourself. But I’m sure your family will be very interested in hearing _your_ explanation as to why you refused some perfectly good bread. _HAZELLE—!”_ he hollers down the hall. 

Gale blanches and tries to close the door on his face again, but not before his mother pokes her head around the corner and beams.

“Peeta! Hello, dear!”

He’s got a very smug look on his face as he meets Gale’s glare. Maybe they’re not too different after all. They’re both set on keeping her family alive after all, _for her._

* * *

“How do you even know him?” grouches Gale, looking up from his soup. He’d caved within 10 minutes and accepted a slice of freshly baked bread to go with it.

His mother glances up from the stove. “Who? Peeta?”

“Yeah.”

“Gale honey, you know I got a job at the bakery. He hired me. Peeta’s my boss.”

“What?” Gale stops eating. “Not his dad?”

“No,” she shakes her head and there’s something unreadable on her expression. Pity, maybe. “Both his parents and older brother died unexpectedly, just before their son came home.”

“What?” And for some reason, Gale really doesn’t think it was an accident, and neither does his mum. Not when Katniss had that look on her face when she died and he had that look on his face when she did.

* * *

Gale honestly doesn’t know how they ended up in this situation but there are worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. There’s a dimple on Peeta’s left cheek as he shows Posy and Vick how to make a frosting flower.

Prim’s laughing, freer than he’s seen her since reaping day, as Rory smears icing on her forehead, and the sound rings crystal-clear in the otherwise hollow house in Victor’s village. For the moment, everything is good.

With some trouble, Gale tears his gaze away from Peeta’s dancing blue eyes. They’re clearer than he’s seen them in a while and it’s distracting.

“Here, you’re stirring it wrong.”

Gale scowls when Peeta reaches around him to help with the cake batter. “How the hell do you stir something wrong?”

“Hell’s a bad word,” sings Vick, but Gale ignores him and grits his teeth because Peeta’s grabbed his hand around the spoon and is guiding it gently.

And again, he doesn’t quite know how it happens but at some point he realises he’s laughing and Peeta’s laughing and there’s cake batter on his fingers and it’s sweet and everything would be a lot easier if Peeta was easier to hate.

* * *

“Huh?” He’s in nothing but shorts and his eyes are comically wide.

Gale rolls his eyes and repeats himself. “Do you want to learn to hunt?”

“I—shit—I mean, I’d love to but I’m a lost cause, I walk too loud—”

For some reason, he finds the way Peeta’s stumbling over his words endearing so he rolls his eyes again. He knows Peeta can’t hunt for shit—he did watch the games after all, and watched him bumbling around after Katniss. But that’s not the point. “So?”

So half an hour later, Peeta’s shimmying under the gap in the fence as best as he can with the metal leg of his. He’s right, of course—Peeta can’t hunt for shit. But he’s alright at collecting plants (at least alright enough that Gale’s mostly confident they won’t get poisoned) so he leaves him to it.

He’s sketching when he gets back. Of course he is. But Gale’s fascinated by the way his rough grey strokes all come together on the page and forms a perfect image of the rocky outcrop and young deer they’re looking at. He doesn’t look up until the deer disappears into the undergrowth and Gale sits down next to him.

“This was our spot. Me and Katniss.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t said ‘I’m sorry’ yet and I’d rather you spared me the bullshit.”

“Why can’t I be sorry?” he snaps, scuffing the grass at his feet. “I’m sorry for your loss and I’m sorry for my loss and I’m sorry for it every day.”

Gale feels something heavy in his chest because Peeta shouldn’t be frowning or sounding strained.

“Well. I guess I’m sorry too.”

“For what?”

“Your loss. And mine.”

* * *

“What’s up?” asks Thom.

Gale is startled. He doesn’t really know what he means. “Huh?”

“I asked, what’s up?”

“What do you mean what’s up? I’m in a good mood.”

“Exactly. How come you’re actually looking happy?”

So Gale scowls again, and flicks coal dust at his friend. “Is looking happy a capital offense now?”

“Nah,” Thom grins, one of his dizzying ones that always comes out of nowhere and makes him look slightly mad. “Nah, it’s just weird.”

* * *

Gale’s trying to cook a stew when he strolls in. He doesn’t look up at first; he’s used to Peeta randomly in and out of his house by now. Once, he joked that Peeta was stealing his mum but he got such a sad look in his eyes that he never mentioned it again.

“Wanna help me start a revolution?”

Well, that’s new. Gale freezes and looks around frantically.

Peeta ignores his panic and waves his hand dismissively. “It’s fine, I checked. The house isn’t bugged.”

“Huh? How the fuck?”

But Peeta’s casually kicking his shoes off and putting the kettle on the fire.

“Peeta? What are you talking about?”

It’s a surreal experience, watching Peeta Mellark make a cup of tea in his house while pure treason casually spills from his lips. Gale could get used to this.

“Peeta?”

“No, I’m being for real,” he leans over and pulls Gale’s pot of stew off the fire. It smells awful, and this is definitely the last time Gale offers to cook dinner. “But I’m not saying anything else.”

“Why not? You said the house isn’t bugged.”

“I can’t tell you anything, until you understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

“What are you offering?” Gale challenges.

Then Peeta gets a dark look, and Gale gulps. It’s still hard for him to fathom Peeta looking dark, especially when he’s stirring a cup of tea, even though he saw him after the Games _(after Katniss died)_ with _that look._ It’s unsettling.

“It could cost your family, Gale.”

He wants to ask _then why are you telling me?_ But he knows why Peeta’s telling him, and he knows Peeta just needs to make sure he knows what could happen if he does. 

“It could cost them anyway,” counters Gale.

“You know where my family went?” Peeta speaks lightly, just like he always does when there’s death in the conversation. Gale used to appreciate it but it sends shivers down his spine now, but still, he nods mutely. Peeta continues. “There was nothing in the bakery that could have leaked gas. Even the stove was coal.”

And Gale’s silent, because he knows. And he knows what Peeta’s going to ask _(because he’s already asked him)_ and he knows what he’s going to reply, even if it takes a while to decide.

“Alright, look here. I’m not saying anything else. Think about it. I’m coming back tomorrow.”

He’s managed to chug the rest of his tea and he’s halfway to the door before Gale’s mind catches up with him. He catches Peeta’s hand and says, “Wait.”

There’s a pause. He thinks of Katniss, with blood on her chest but fire in her eyes, and thinks of Peeta with ugly hate directed towards the sky and purple berry juice trickling from the corner of his mouth as the hovercraft carries him away. They stopped filming very quickly after that, and Gale’s surprised they didn’t stop sooner.

“I’m in.”

Then Peeta smiles brightly and Gale’s certain he knew what his answer was going to be all along.

Together, they manage to turn the mess in the stew pot into something edible (nice, even), although the expensive spices definitely help.

* * *

_I will not scream._ That’s what he’s thinking when the whip comes whistling at his back the first time, and it hurts so bad that he’s almost blinded and his body’s shocked forwards but not a sound escapes his lips. He tries to control his breathing, tries to focus on the little misty shapes his breath is making in the air. The second lash hits harder than the first, and his back is on fire. But he clamps his lips shut and lets anger consume every instinct to cry out.

By 20 lashes he couldn’t scream if he wanted. He can’t see anything but red and it _hurts._

By 30, he thinks maybe he’s died but at least he hasn’t let out a sound and at least he can’t feel anything anymore.

He doesn’t feel much at all for a while after that. There’s nothing but darkness and a haze of pain that comes and goes in waves, cresting over enough to force a soft cry from his lips but ebbing and retreating back into dark. Presently, the hurt stops, washed over by something else. Something comfortably numb.

And maybe he’s found that Meadow, that good place, because nothing hurts and nothing’s heavy, even though it isn’t quite what he imagined. It’s a kitchen, not a field, and he’s lying face-down and everything’s kind of blurry, like there’s a dimension he hasn’t crossed, and it’s all got a rosy tint. And there’s a strong hand holding his.

A set of blue eyes and a crinkled brow come down to eye level and Gale feels a laugh bubbling in his chest, but he can’t move much so it doesn’t escape properly, only a shaky huff. He reaches out a hand and it drifts, like he’s in a dream, but it brushes gently against a pair of slightly chapped pink lips. He can feel that just fine, so he leaves his hand there and traces the bow on the top, curling down to the drooped corners and swooping over the bottom.

Peeta catches his hand, and Gale realises he’s frowning.

“Get some rest.”

He doesn’t know why Peeta looks so troubled and suddenly, he knows he’s not in the Meadow anymore because Peeta shouldn’t have a weary cloud pulled over his eyes. It’s his last thought before a fresh thrum of dull pain throbs through him and he slips away again.

* * *

He thinks Peeta’s put a filter over his eyes, or maybe taken a veil away from them because slowly, all the colours seem to be a little brighter. Less ugly. Or maybe he’s just taken Gale’s hand and shown him a new way of looking at the world.

Because he notices things now. Small things. Like when Peeta points out the way the yellow sun hits the underside of leaves and they glow gold, or the way a puddle holds the secrets of the world if you look close enough. The little things that make life just a little bit better.

And then Gale starts noticing the small things about Peeta, like his eyelashes, which are long but so blonde they’re almost transparent, or the way the corners of this mouth dip down when he’s concentrating, especially on a painting. He tries teaching Gale to paint. It doesn’t work.

* * *

“Why’d they let you live?” Gale asks abruptly, as Peeta turns off the TV. He’s looking tight-jawed but surprisingly calm. The Victory tour’s coming up and they keep televising moments of the most _exciting_ Hunger Games in years, and it tends to feature shots of Peeta and Katniss kissing. It makes them both angry and claws open recently scabbed over wounds.

Gale wishes the Capitol would just leave them alone and let them live but of course they wouldn’t.

“It was a mistake,” says Peeta simply. He’s got a glint in his eye that Gale isn’t sure he likes. “But I managed to convince them my actions were those of a deranged, lovesick fool and not someone dangerous.”

“You weren’t a deranged, lovesick fool?” Gale swings his feet onto the table but keeps Peeta in the corner of his eyes.

He gets the little crinkle on his forehead again. “Yes and no,” he says. “More like 40%.”

“40% in love?”

“100% in love. But my life without her wasn’t what was going through my mind when I did it.”

And it’s not hard to believe, not when Peeta’s got the ugly look in his eyes again—the one that twists his face and looks so unnatural on his pleasant features it’s scary. They’ve cut that part out of the re-runs. Unsurprisingly. It’s probably bad for press because Peeta’s not supposed to be scary.

“So it was 60% fuck the Capitol and fuck their Games?” The words roll off Gale’s tongue like the sweet taste of an apple in Eden. Treason’s always satisfying, even if nobody else can hear it. 

“Pretty much,” he shrugs and looks at the TV warily. “Too bad. Maybe they’ll figure it out and find a way to cleverly assassinate me during the Victory tour. Quietly off me, you know.”

“They’ve left you alive this long.”

Peeta just shrugs. “It will get the point across though, won’t it? Besides, jokes on them. I’m planning on being hailed as a martyr.”

At that, Gale lets himself have a snort of laughter but there’s something weighing heavy. He always knew it at the back of his mind but it’s just hitting him that Peeta has a very reasonable chance of dying, despite their quiet, tentative scheming and careful filing of information. They haven’t said _revolution_ again, not since Gale said he was in, because it’s too early. It’s only budding. But it’s there.

“You could die,” says Gale, somewhat dumbly. He’s just realising that he’d care a whole lot more than he’s planned.

“Yeah,” Peeta shrugs again. “And?”

* * *

The mines are pretty much the perfect representation of Gale’s mind these days. It’s dark, it’s painful, and he can’t get out. He still thinks of Katniss sometimes and hopes she’s out there somewhere, in a place where things are good and she doesn’t have to worry all the time. But more often than not, there are wide hands bleeding and one-dimpled smiles fading over and over again.

“What’s wrong with you?” Thom asks, looking ghostly and drawn out underground. Like everyone else here, he’s got a layer of soot and grime coating his whole body.

“Nothing. Same old. We’re still stuck in a fucking mine, what’s new?”

Nothing much is new. Peeta’s still stubbornly trying to get himself killed by flaunting his stupid bravery, what with his impromptu speech that _definitely_ wasn’t approved in District 11. And it’s old news that Gale can’t get to sleep because of the worry that jitters through his limbs all the time.

“Something’s been bugging you for a week. You’re not still hung over Katniss, are you?”

Thom’s speaking like they broke up _(which is dumb because she was never his, even if he was always hers)_ , not like she’s dead. Gale scowls. “Shut up. It’s not her. She’s been dead—” _(and he doesn’t have to spit the word dead out anymore, even though it does still leave a nasty aftertaste)_ “—for 6 months. And it’s never interfered with my work.”

“Whatever. You gonna tell me what’s on your mind?”

“No. Piss off.”

“You should try moving on.”

Problem is, Gale has moved on. As much as he can. But _moving on_ really hasn’t taken the form he was expecting and it’s no less painful.

“Suck on your dead Nan’s ashes Thom, and leave me alone,” he snaps, turning back to the pile of rock in front of them.

Thom ignores him, as expected. “You know, sex could help.”

“Is that an offer?”

Gale’s joking and he’s pretty sure Thom is too when he teases, “Why, do you want it to be?”

He’s still joking when Thom grins flirtatiously and invites him over tonight with a wink, and somehow they’re still toeing the line between banter and hoping the other’s being serious right up until Gale’s moaning on his hands and knees with a dick up his ass.

“So,” says Thom.

“So,” echoes Gale, not bothering turn around to meet his friend’s eyes in the moonlight.

“So did that help?”

“Piss off,” he replies, but it’s half-hearted.

“Come on,” Thom rolls over and braces himself above Gale, on his forearm. His hair is brown in the moonlight and messed up from earlier. “How much did you love this girl? You guys weren’t even dating.”

But Gale can’t be bothered to deal with any of it. He’s too tired. It’s not about Katniss anymore, hasn’t been for a while—but he’s not about to tell Thom that. So he waves him off with another half-hearted, “Piss off.”

It’s quiet for a while.

“Come on,” and for once, Thom sounds genuinely concerned. “Did it at least do something? Make you forget for a moment?”

“Alcohol would probably work better, if I could afford to drink the stuff like water. Like Haymitch.”

Thom snorts but doesn’t deny it. “It’s not sustainable, though. You’ll trash your liver.”

And Gale actually sits up incredulously at that. “I work in the _mines_ , Thom. Liver failure is the least of my problems if I’m gonna die before I hit 30 anyway.”

And suddenly they’re both laughing and it’s bleak and hollow but at least it’s laughter, in this short, dark life they live in.

“Besides,” Gale says, once they’ve recovered. “The effects of alcohol definitely last longer.”

Then Thom’s leaning over him again, with another laugh on his lips and a gleam in his eye. “Is that a challenge?”

So for a night, he lets himself get lost in sensation and sensation alone, and manages to temporarily block out traitorous thoughts of blue eyes, a gold pin, and blood on his hands.

* * *

Oh, he knew Peeta fucked it up badly but at least he was alive by the end of it. Until suddenly, he’s not anymore.

Gale kicks his chair aside in his haze and he’s left the house before he knows what he’s doing. His mother’s restraining hand on his shoulder is too fleeting to notice and her hollow warmth is quickly blown away by the harsh winds and snow outside.

Peeta’s house is dark and empty as ever, not even the smell of fresh-baked bread lingering in the air. It’s a ghost of what it is sometimes, when Gale and Peeta and Rory and Vick and Posy and Prim fill it with hope, or even just a single good moment.

He doesn’t linger long. There’s only one other place Peeta would be, and he’s not disappointed—there’s already an empty bottle on the table when Gale bursts into Haymitch’s kitchen.

“Peeta—”

“What are you doing here?” his words aren’t slurred; not yet.

“I can’t—” he blurts out, not really knowing what to do with his hands or where to look. Haymitch is laughing silently in the corner, his lips sealed around a second bottle.

“You can’t what?”

Gale grits his teeth and lets himself get mad because it’s not him who’s got the problem here, it’s Peeta who might die, and he’s the one who’s _can’t—_ because again, there’s nothing he can do.

“For fuck’s sake,” he’s well aware that he’s seething and shaking but doesn’t care. “For fucks sake Peeta, not you too—not after Katniss—”

“Calm down,” Gale’s wrists are taken in a firm but gentle grip that does nothing to ground him. Peeta’s looking a little alarmed but his voice is steady and _goddammit this isn’t right—_ he’s going back into the arena, and he doesn’t care.

“What the fuck do you mean calm down?” he hisses, face barely inches from Peeta’s. He’s got a faint acne scar just above his left eyebrow and his hands are still tight on Gale’s wrists, even though Gale’s got his fists clenched. When he’s sitting on the counter like this, his eyes are just a little higher than Gale’s. “You’re going back. You could be going back in.”

“So?” he finally relaxes his grip and looks away. It’s bitter and it hurts.

“And you’re my… you’re my friend.”

Peeta gulps and his hand drifts upwards, floats over Gale’s chest and skitters over his shoulder. It looks lost, so Gale catches it. Steadies him.

“Yeah,” he finally says softly. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

And Gale lets him lean his forehead on his shoulder and crumble just a little, even as Haymitch drinks himself to sleep in the background.

* * *

Gale’s plucking geese like they’re the root of all his problems, discarding feathers on the ground in handfuls. They’ll be a pain in the arse to sweep away later but he can’t bring himself to give a shit, not when Peeta’s casually discussing his death in a shack in the woods.

“If you get reaped, I’m volunteering,” says Peeta, casually tossing a handful of white down on the floor to match Gale’s pile.

Haymitch snorts. He’s not made a move to help them with the geese—he’s winded enough from the walk up as it is. “We’ve been through this, kid. I don’t want you back in that arena.”

“So? It will be useful. It will earn me pity points from the Capitol bastards at least. Show how brave I am and that, still dragging out the star-crossed lovers act.”

He sounds bitter, and Gale is bitter. Hearing him mention their act _(only it wasn’t really an act, even if Katniss never got to say I love you, not to Peeta, not to either of them—)_ makes something curdle inside.

“You’re more useful alive,” Haymitch points out, kicking feathers away from him. “You’re good with words. You can make people believe. If anything’s going to come out of this, we need someone to rally around.”

Peeta snorts. “Who cares? I can always do that when I’m dead. People love a martyr.”

“What’s your fixation on dying a martyr?” grumbles Gale, not looking up. He’s ignored.

Peeta plucks a particularly long feather from his goose and holds it up to his arm, almost subconsciously. Like he’s imagining being a bird. A mockingjay. Like Katniss. “Come on Haymitch, we all know you’re needed for the strategy. Besides, imagine the publicity—” his drifting eyes seem to snap back into focus and he discards the feather again. “District 12 doesn’t have a female tribute. I can make it painfully obvious Katniss isn’t here with me, especially on that stupid chariot, and scrape some sympathy. Shows the loss, right?”

“Yeah,” Gale snorts, because all this talking about death and Katniss is getting him frustrated. “Because if killing 23 kids a year isn’t going to make Capitol bastards see some humanity, then your star-crossed lovers shit is for sure.”

“He’s got a point,” Haymitch concedes, and Gale scowls again. “The Capitol is twisted. Star-crossed-lovers bullshit is exactly what they eat up.”

“So you’re sending him in to die?”

“He’s not going to die if he can help it,” Haymitch points out. “There’s a plan. Remember?”

“Oh yeah, the one we don’t know anything about?”

“Beetee’s working on it. You know he can’t send us details,” snaps Haymitch just because everyone’s got a short temper these days. Then, he mumbles an afterthought. “It’s almost good Katniss isn’t here as well.”

Both Gale and Peeta look up in surprise, not sure what he’s insinuating. Maybe yes, she won’t have to go through a second Hunger Games but surely—

“Well as it is, at least we’ve got a martyr already,” says Haymitch gruffly, and although it’s a joke (albeit a dark one) it still hurts.

Peeta snorts but it’s suitably hollow. “I don’t know, if she was alive, we could have stretched it even more. Made those cold Capitol hearts bleed.”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, what’s more barbaric than separating the star-crossed lovers… and killing their fake unborn baby?”

Haymitch guffaws at Peeta’s bitter joke but Gale doesn’t. It’s all hollow and bitter and unfeeling and he can’t take much more of it.

“Come on,” he stands up abruptly, casting the goose aside. “I’ll teach you how to swim.”

It’s one of the good moments, there in the tiny lake with Peeta Mellark and Haymitch Abernathy of all people. The April air is warm on their skin but the water is frighteningly cold—it knocks the air straight out of Gale’s lungs and when it comes rushing back in, it’s clear and fresh and light.

There’s nothing funnier than Haymitch shuddering against the cold water and shrieking when weed touches his toes. Gale laughs until he cries, but he still can’t stop himself from blushing like a little girl because Peeta’s stark naked, and right next to him. Gale’s very glad the water’s freezing.

* * *

It’s dark in Peeta’s house but there’s a sort of energy, thrumming uneasily through the walls and sparking between them. They’ve been stilted and hollow all evening, silent throughout dinner. Gale thinks he might be trembling but he isn’t—he’s perfectly still. They both are.

Peeta catches him before he reaches the door. “You know what to do, right?” His voice is so low it’s barely a breath on his cheek. There’s no way any hidden audio equipment could pick it up.

Gale takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Counts to three, nods silently. _You’ll know when it happens. Get them out, as many as you can._

When he opens his eyes again, Peeta’s close, impossibly close, and the energy’s back stronger than ever, vibrating through every bone in his body. For a second, neither of them move—he feels an electric current fizzing, passing through Peeta’s hand and onto his wrist, which is being gripped so tightly it’s probably restricting his blood flow. He doesn’t care.

His movements are stilted, uncertain, as he moves forwards. Hesitant. Giving Gale a chance to lean back, walk away. But Gale can’t make himself do anything, not even think, and his pulse is rushing in his ears in a crescendo—it’s barely a kiss, barely a whisper of lips on lips but Gale’s heart is thumping so loudly he can’t hear his thoughts, he’s scared it will explode. And all the energy seems to be drawn between them on a tiny wire, delicate.

For a minute, it’s silent. Just them, nothing else. No world outside. But the moment feels fragile, like it could slip through their entwined fingers any second, so Gale seizes it while he still can. His hands fly to cup Peeta’s face, frame it, wrap it up and block out the world so it’s just him and nobody else, and he holds on desperately as he kisses him back with everything he’s got.

It’s not long before it’s not enough, and Gale’s being pressed into the door, consumed by everything _Peeta._ It’s easy to get lost in the slide of their lips and the hot breath everywhere and solid muscle pressed against his own, warm and firm and demanding. Peeta’s hands are holding his waist, clamping him in place _(as if he’s going anywhere, he’s exactly where he needs to be—)_ but they drift down over his ass at the same time as a leg presses against his crotch and _god,_ Gale’s seeing stars. He can’t help the throaty moan that rips from his throat any more than he can help desperately grabbing handfuls of Peeta’s gold curls and holding on tight. It’s almost too much feeling but at the same time he craves more, craves everything.

But Peeta pulls back and Gale desperately chases him with his lips, but the hands are back, clamping him in place. It hurts. His heart is still thudding somewhere in his head, drowning everything else out and making him dizzy. It isn’t fair.

Peeta catches his eye. Licks his lips. He’s hesitant again, and suddenly, it’s back—the rushing feeling of uncertainty but _want_ , the urge that pulses so strongly that the chord between them could break. Whatever it is, it’s fragile and frustrating and Gale doesn’t want to think about it because nothing matters much anymore, not when Peeta’s leaving so soon, leaving him like Katniss did.

But Peeta seems to understand, feel it himself, because while he still looks uncertain, he takes the leap and plunges his hand down Gale’s waistband. The grip around him is rough and strong, unfamiliar but so right and Gale feels like he’s whited out, or maybe his heart is beating so fast it’s all dissolved into one long vibration, making his whole body tremble. He moans, then, low and breathless, back still pressed against the door.

And just like that, something’s snapped and the two of them are tearing at clothes right there by the door of the house in Victor’s village _(not a home, never was to Peeta)_ and Gale hopes that there’s hidden cameras, hopes that President Snow himself can see Peeta wrapping strong fingers around Gale’s cock and twisting, pumping, hopes he can hear their harsh breathing and gasps, low and all-consuming in the darkness. He doesn’t care anymore. There’s hate and resentment and desperation flowing through his veins instead of blood, and love in every place his skin meets Peeta’s.

And then there’s nothing but Peeta, surrounding him from all sides, he’s drowning in him and loves it, feels himself slipping, spiralling down, hurtling towards some place where the floor will open up underneath him and send him spinning through empty space—the slide of his cock on Peeta’s is good, so good, it’s hot and wet and _hard_ and he can’t take it anymore so he grips Peeta close and buries his face in his shoulder, shuddering and gasping. And despite it all, despite everything, Peeta’s solid and steady against him, holding him up. Safe in his arms for one more night.

* * *

“Is this fucked up?” Gale can’t help asking. He turns around to face Peeta—he’s lying on his back, blue eyes open and reflecting the little bit of moonlight that bleeds through the window, over his pale chest and up over his jaw.

“Nah.”

And even though it’s not about her, it never was, not after a blurred point in time—Gale has to ask it. “What do you think Katniss would say?”

To his surprise, Peeta starts shaking. It takes a second to notice the dimple on his cheek in the half-light, and the laughing curve of his lips. “She’d totally be into it. But she’d also definitely cover her eyes and run away, and you know it.”

And Gale can’t help it. He bursts out laughing too, imagining the look on her face, because it’s true—she’s such a prude. She _was_ such a prude.

“You know,” he begins, hesitantly tracing the remnants of their laugh on his lips. “I tried very hard to hate you. In the beginning.”

A half-smile graces Peeta’s mouth. He looks very far away so Gale pulls him closer, longing to feel the beat of his heart while he still can. “So this was never expected?”

“Not in a million years.”

When he smiles it’s a little sad. “I’m glad it happened.” _Even if I die tomorrow._

There’s quiet desperation in the way Gale clings to him, like if he holds on tight enough they can stay forever. He’s stopped believing in a Meadow, or any good place, because somehow, the world will find a way to take that from him too.

There’s nothing else he can do but bury his face into the small of his back and breathe him in. Try and imprint every little thing in the crevices of his brain. Just in case.

He smells like sweat, but oddly clean—there’s a little bit of soap lingering on his skin, a little bit of lemon frosting and acrylic paint and flour. It smells like everything Peeta, but the longer he tries to breathe it all in, the more he thinks he can already smell rust and blood mixed underneath.

* * *

The next day, everything is surreal. Like he’s physically seeing the time pass in the house: he’s distant from the clock’s stunted hands clawing away every second, it’s as if he’s watching every individual flap of a bird’s wings and like he’s too far away to take Peeta’s stoic face in his hands one more time.

It’s a bit like wading through a dream. It’s stiff, silent, empty. Every movement is stilted, every sound muted. He feels like should be clinging to Peeta desperately like he did last night, but they’re not. They’re not even touching, not looking at each other. Maybe it’s because neither of them think they’ll be able to pull away.

So Gale touches his cheek instead, ghosts calloused fingers over the spot on his cheek where there should be a laughing dimple. Peeta doesn’t look at him, just swallows and holds his hand there tightly. And even if the strength of the grip on his palm is all the pain they can show, all the goodbyes they can ever say, it has to be enough.

“Come back to me,” he whispers, because that’s all he thinks he can say. It’s all he can take.

Peeta looks up to meet his eyes one last time, blue eyes crystal-clear and fragile, like glass.

And just like that, he’s gone.


End file.
